


Hallelujah

by OnceABlueMoon



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst, Christianity, Coming of Age, F/M, Homophobia, Homosexuality, I figured out footnotes for this fic, Internalized Homophobia, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Religion, Roman Catholicism, Sawada Smitten Curse, and how to overcome it, christian philosophical debates, man vs society, the slowest burn since fire was invented, you want cute gay? there will be cute gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-04-14 12:48:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14136363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnceABlueMoon/pseuds/OnceABlueMoon
Summary: ‘’There is blood on Giotto’s hands; The type you can’t scrub off.The first had gone down with a thud. The second with a howl. He didn’t keep count after the third. Giotto hates himself; The ease with which he ended lives makes him sick to his stomach.(He had been in a haze while killing, but he’s certain: He intended to do it)’’Giotto’s life: A tale of loss, love, religion, betrayal and learning to love yourself.





	1. Sunday Child

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I don’t own Katekyo Hitman Reborn.

 

> _'’The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.’’_
> 
> \- Proverb

* * *

**Chapter 1: Sunday Child**

* * *

Giotto is born with a smile on his face, his wails joyous instead of upset. His aunt laughs and claps in her hands. ‘’Maria, hear, hear! He’s not even Christened yet and already singing hallelujah!’’

His mother strokes his nose and sighs happily. ‘’A blessed Sunday child, don’t you think?’’

They walk to the church singing, the baby nestled in the crook of Maria’s arms.

'' _Monday's child is fair of face,_  
_Tuesday's child is full of grace,_  
_Wednesday's child is full of woe,_  
_Thursday's child has far to go,_  
_Friday's child is loving and giving,_  
_Saturday's child works hard for a living,_  
_And the child born on the Sabbath day_  
_Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.’_ ’[1]

Their small, seaside town is not a kind one. They live on crime-riddled streets and poverty is a disease no-one can cure. Maria manages to feed her son, and while not necessarily becoming a beacon of strength, the boy grows willowy and hardy.

They need the money, so Giotto begins to work the minute he can, just like the other children his age. His hands become rough and his skin darkens in the sun, but his wild hair doesn’t lose its shine. Nor do his eyes, and his mouth always has a smile left to give. He’s a pretty boy, a dangerous thing to be in the darkest corners of the streets. But sunlight is free and even the sea becomes a black hole at night, only to sparkle when dawn breaks once again. Giotto doesn’t mind. Pretty boys learn to punch twice as hard, as far as he is concerned, so it evens out.

Maria watches with uneasy eyes, but he knows what he’s doing. ‘’Don’t worry, mama! I only fight in defence! I won’t shame the Lord’s teachings of love!’’

His eyes sing hallelujah.

Maria lets him go with a heavy heart, watching her son run off again. He uses violence as a means, but only when there is no other way. He is kind, generous, not afraid to defend others as readily as he defends himself.

He is good, there is no question about it, but Maria remembers _being good_ doesn’t come without a price. She’s afraid of the day it will cost his smile.

It arrives when he fifteen.

He’s out with that gang of his, a red-head on either side and their comrades in arms behind them. He comes home with blood on his hands and hollow eyes. But still, hoarsely it falls from his lips: ‘’Hallelujah, mama. Hallelujah.’’

It scares her witless and she stares at the scratched kitchen table for a long, long time. The clock ticks on the wall, as a shadow falls upon her heart.

Where has her Sunday child gone?

* * *

Giotto is thirteen when he meets Cozart. He likes him. He’s steadfast, calm and confident, a mischievous smile in the shadow of his black cap. His hair is fiery red and his passion is just as great.

They team up, together with Giotto’s best friend G, to help out the people in their neighbourhood.

They’re fourteen when it isn’t enough anymore. The crime is not just stolen goods now. The outlaws are hurting people and the police are no help at all. Giotto is afraid that if they don’t do something, there will be no one left to save.

Then Franco is beaten up in front of their eyes and Giotto can’t take it anymore. ‘’I refuse to sit around quietly, watching as they take our town!’’

It happens in the middle of a bustling street.

Cozart is the one who voices their thoughts. ‘’We could be vigilantes.’’

Giotto clenches his fists and nods. ‘’If no one else will help us, then we’ve got to defend the town ourselves. However, governing that kind of group will require great leadership. And rain, nor storm, nor sun will be able to keep us away, once we have that. Just like the sky.’’

The group shuffles around, silent, shooting each other unsure looks until Cozart speaks up again. ‘’Giotto, there’s no one but you.’’

Giotto swallows. He doesn’t condone violence, but there’s a fire burning in him, so he straightens his shoulder and meets Cozart’s gaze. ‘’All right,’’ he says, ‘’All right.’’

With those words, he creates the Vongola, Cozart the first to trust Giotto with his life. Responsibility has never felt heavier.

They fight the monsters on the streets, darkness cloaking their youthful features. They’re only fifteen, but rule a reign of terror. They steal their enemies’ supplies, knocking them out before they know what’s happening. Their invisibility creates a bloodcurdling reputation.

After their latest raid, they sleep in a warehouse. Giotto wakes up with the smell of smoke invading his nose, Cozart, warm beside him, still asleep. Flames lick at the door opening, the heat unbearable. The air is thin and the world is spinning.

He shakes Cozart and G. ‘’Wake up!’’

‘’Wazzit- Fire?!’’

Giotto’s eyes dart around. Where is the exit? No, they’ll have to take the window.

The three boys have to crawl, but they get there. Giotto swings his legs over the ledge. The ground is awfully far away. He swallows, eyes darting from the splintered frame beneath his hands to the street stones far below. But G and Cozart already jumped and a broken leg is nothing next to dying. He takes the leap.

* * *

They watch the house go up in flames, G holding Giotto up. His ankle is swollen. The bad landing got him good. It hurts, but it’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.

The roof collapses and G shakes his head. ‘’It wasn’t an accident,’’

Cozart swears.

Giotto clenches his fists. The fire had spread too fast for a building made of stone. They should’ve known.

The worst thing is that Giovanni can’t miss this warehouse. He tries to support the Vongola however he can, but letting them sleep there was risky already. Now all his wares have gone up in flames. It’s cruel, but then again, that’s the reason the Vongola exists in the first place.

Protecting the town from the outlaws is a- Giotto’s eyes widen.

‘’Giovanni is in danger!’’ He wasn’t sure if the enemy was aware of their identities. But they knew Giovanni was their supporter if the fire was any indication.

Giotto’s gut burns as they run towards Giovanni’s house, his ankle throbbing. The shouts are already audible.

There is a body on the pavement. Its stomach is torn open, still bleeding, the face turned away. It’s Giovanni. Could he still- the glassy eyes take all hope away. It’s a corpse.

G bows over it. ‘’Looks like it was his liver.’’[2]

Giotto closes his eyes.  A painful death. Giovanni must have lain there for at least twenty minutes before he succumbed. Stomach wounds are always nasty. The deeper cuts leave the victim unable to walk; The few minutes they have left are spent under their attacker’s mercy².

‘’Any other obvious wounds?’’

‘’Broken fingers. Looks like they kicked him while he was down.’’

Giotto wants to scream, the smell of gunpowder in the air. He is furious, has never felt so much resolve to stop this madness before. It burns his veins, travelling towards his hands and head, where it makes its presence known.

Giovanni’s wife and daughter are nowhere to be seen, but little Rosina’s doll is still lying next to her father. They were taken.

His dying will bursts free.

* * *

He bursts through the door, fire blazing. His nerves are tingling, but his ankle doesn’t feature. It isn’t numb; He just doesn’t feel it.

He’s completely zoomed in on his goal, hyper-aware.

The air smells like dirt and he is only keeping the cold at bay with the flames burning on his hands and forehead. A little girl is screaming.

He sees Lucia first. She’s covering her daughter with her body, snapping at the cutthroats cornering them. Her upper lip lifts into an animalistic snarl, but her limbs are shaking.

Of the two parties, only one has a knife. It’s not Lucia.

Giotto moves.

* * *

It’s impossible to keep his identity secret after rescuing Rosina and Lucia. Lucia doesn’t talk, silent as the grave, but Rosina is too small to understand and before the morning sun rises, everyone knows.

* * *

He walks the street and they sing Hallelujah. His name is on the lips of everyone in town.

Their eyes follow him. ‘’ _Vongola’s leader_.’’

He passes the bakery, but all he can smell is the dock’s rotting fish.

There is blood on his hands, the type you can’t scrub off.

The first had gone down with a thud. The second with a howl. He didn’t keep count after the third. Giotto hates himself; The ease with which he ended lives makes him sick to his stomach. His footsteps echo.

(He had been in a haze while killing, but he’s certain: He intended to do it)

They put a mantle on his shoulders, crowning him like a King, just as Cozart did when he laid down his life in Giotto’s hands.

He manages to make it home before puking on the dirt floor, orange meeting brown. It’s disgusting and the world spins. The flames were orange too.

He grabs his hair and pulls, but the sour taste doesn’t go away, and neither does the memory of Lucia’s shrill voice after he slit her attackers’ throats.

There was fear in her eyes.

Is this what he’s become?

* * *

G sighs when he discovers Giotto on the floor.

‘’C’mon,’’ He hauls his friend up and drags him to bed.

Giotto nuzzles the pillow. G pulls up the sheets and tucks him in. It’s all no-nonsense, routine, but the hand on the brunet’s forehead isn’t.

“A fever. Figures.”

Giotto peers at him from underneath the blanket.

‘’I wouldn’t know what to do without you.’’

‘’Yeah, you would be pretty lost.’’

This is who they are, friends looking out for each other.

* * *

‘’We have to talk about the flames.’’ It’s been four days, and G is done avoiding the subject.

Giotto’s mouth is dry. Cozart is silent beside him, melting into the shadows of the rocks along the coast. There’s sand in his hair and Giotto’s hands twitch. He wants for nothing more than to reach out and brush through Cozart’s red strands. The butterflies in his stomach would distract him from the conversation.

He bites his lip; It tastes like salt. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Doesn’t want to face his screaming nightmares of fearful eyes and flames. Flames everywhere. He snorts. His feelings for Cozart are the least of his problems now.

A seagull cries in the distance.

G clicks his tongue. ‘’Do you think you could use them again?’’

Giotto stiffens. ‘’You don’t mean that.’’

‘’We need that power, Giotto. This is a war we can’t win. We’re three boys with what? Ten other men backing us? We should be thanking our goddamn lucky stars that Giovanni’s the only corpse among us yet!’’

Giotto turns to the other redhead. ‘’Cozart?’’

‘’We’re out in the open now, Gio. My aunt’s been getting threats and I bet your family received a fair share of their own.’’

He closes his eyes. This can’t be what the Lord meant the world to be when He created it. The Lord has plans divine; Giotto doesn’t know if he’s included in them, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do something about it. He has killed, he doesn’t have the privileges of the innocent anymore.

_‘’Giotto, there’s no one but you.’’_

He clenches his fists and squares his shoulders. ‘’If I try hard enough, I may be able to produce more.’’

* * *

They call them Sky flames, and rain, nor storm, nor the sun can keep the Vongola away.

* * *

Their enemies call them the demons and cross themselves to ban out evil. But the Vongola do not dissolve for they are no devils.

Angels, the people call them, Guardian Angels. Heavenly fire blesses them, flame burning on the forehead and on the hands, occasionally even on the feet. A cross.

‘’In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’’

It feels wrong when people say so. Giotto knows he is doing the right thing by protecting them, but he is a murderer. He has killed and for all the forgiveness the Lord may be willing to grant, he cannot forgive himself.

* * *

Cozart has to go back to his parents every spring but often returns to them in winter[3]

. Years glide by and the Vongola grows. Knuckle, a learned man who was once a priest and Asari, a foreign nobleman looking to acquire a trading route, join the upper ranks. They are even assisted by another group once in a while, led by a tall, blond Frenchman.

They discover there is more than one flame. A range of colours emerge, but Giotto is the only one who bears the Sky flame. They call them after weather phenomena, whatever suits the flame the best. G has a red variant, which disintegrates everything it touches.

‘’You don’t need a flame for that,’’ Giotto grins one evening in front of the fireplace. ‘’Your raised eyebrow alone makes your subordinates wither.’’

G snorts and pulls his beer closer, tapping the moisture-mark covered table. ‘’If only it would pulverize that ego of yours.’’

Cozart bites his lip and turns away, but his shoulders are shaking with laughter. His cheeks apple and Giotto is drunk on his wine eyes.

Warmth spreads from his gut and Giotto’s face burns, tingly all over. But in the corner of his eye, he sees a mess of dark hair and flinches.

(He remembers them being dragged away; men kissing men[4]

. To jail, some said. To be butchered, others whispered. Disgusting, some screamed.

The pavement colouring red.

He’d been small, then, but the half-moon scars of nails digging into his palms remain an everlasting reminder)

* * *

Hiding it from Knuckle was no use. Knuckle is a holy man, one who serves God. And Giotto… Giotto loves Cozart, with his wide jaw, red hair, narrow hips and chapped lips. A man. Sometimes he thinks Cozart might love him too, but that can’t be.

Especially not when Knuckle meets him in the chapel the next day and says: ‘’Man shall not lay with man as he does with woman.’’[5]

Sunlight streams through the stained-glass windows and colour pools through the room.

It strikes Giotto to the heart. His love for Cozart goes against the word of the Lord and Giotto feels so terribly guilty for betraying Him, even if only in thought. But he never apologizes, because it’s love, the most beautiful thing in the world, and he won’t deny it.

He understands why, but some part of him still feels betrayed, abandoned and hurt at the thought of his friend forsaking him for something so natural and good as love.

He opens his mouth, ready to defend himself, fists clenched, but Knuckle holds up a hand. ‘’It means either must be equal. Man cannot be woman, woman cannot be man. Love is what the Lord lives for, his ultimate goal.’’

He rests easier that night.

* * *

A young noblewoman comes to him, bringing her lover with her. They don’t fit in and that is why they suit the Vongola. By now Giotto has figured out _nobody_ fits in with the Vongola because they’re too diverse and unique. He likes it that way. Elena and Daemon do too.

Elena is optimistic but sly. Her partner might be a cynic, but he is also cunning and believes in the Vongola with his whole heart, complimenting her as always. Daemon doesn’t look at Elena with moon eyes, but only because it’s obvious to him that she must’ve hung it in the sky.

Giotto can’t help but smile at them.

* * *

‘’What are they?’’

The blue haired woman laughed. ‘’A present. Or maybe a curse. It will depend on what you will do with it. I can see the future, but the future depends on choices. I trust you to make the right ones, Vongola!’’

Giotto swallows, looking down at the ring on his hand. _No,_ he wants to say, _I can’t carry this,_ but as always, he hesitates too long. When he lifts his head, she’s gone.

She’s a strange woman, Shaman Sepira.

* * *

They’ve been training their men for a long time, each of the inner circle having their own division, though everyone ultimately answers to Giotto. They’re good men, but the Vongola grows and grows and grows until one day, Giotto looks at his division and thinks: I don’t know that face. I don’t know her name.

I don’t know my men.

…

Are they good men, these strangers?

* * *

_Dear Cozart,_

_Are you well?_

_~~I have~~ _

_~~I am~~ _

_~~The other day~~ _

_~~I’m not.~~ _

He tries to reach out, but the words don’t come. A thousand crossed out notes, but all the same heading. And eventually, when the words do flow, he stares at the finished letter.

It contains: _I love you, I need you, helpmeIamsoafraid._

He’s never told Cozart his awkward manners melt his insides, that his sleeping face ties his tongue and that the way he puts his thumbs in his pockets makes Giotto ache with desire to kiss his broad lips.

He sits down and rests his forehead on the table, arms next to it, dread heavy in his stomach. God, he is a coward.

He never sends the letter.

* * *

Giotto walks in on the incident in the middle of the street in broad daylight. They’re holding a little boy up in the air, laughing, taunting him. ‘’Ready to give us your money, kid? Wouldn’t want anything to happen to your little brother, would you?’’

The older boy, held back by two thugs, struggles, elbowing backwards. He hits the shoulder joint. The captor on the right recoils and the boy jerks arm free, punching the man still holding on to him. The left captor doesn’t let go, but his face contorts in anger. ‘’You’ll regret that, pal.’’

It happens in a flash.

The thug has flames on his hands, _dying will flames,_ but he loses control and the red, red, _red_ Storm flames eat the boy like acid.

Giotto burns, is there before he knows it, and throws the man off the teen. The boy’s face has melted, his arms and ribs eaten away. The smell of burning flesh is spreading, but so are the storm flames and it might be too late for the older brother, but the younger is still alive. Giotto snatches the crying boy up, but the flames are everywhere and he has nowhere to go and- The ring unlocks and Giotto finds the power to stop it all.

* * *

Afterwards, when the danger is gone, Giotto stares down at his hands again, bile rising up in his throat.

The rings are weapons.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it. The boy is still there, his bottom lip trembling and his wide, brown eyes brimming with tears and something Giotto recognizes, but can’t name. He needs comfort. Someone to still his shaking limbs.  

‘’The bad men are gone now.’’ Giotto reaches out, but a woman in the crowd snatches the boy away, protectively hiding him behind her.

Her eyes narrow, ‘’No they aren’t. You are still here, _Lucifer._ ’’

The crowd gasps and cross themselves, but no one protests.

Giotto frowns, eyes darting around. What- oh. The dying will flames. The knowledge had leaked to some criminal families and Giotto had assumed… But no.

The men he’d just defeated? Those were from his own godforsaken division and he hadn’t even noticed until she spat it in his face.

In a daze, Giotto turns around and walks home, hand touching his throat, eyes unseeing. His bedroom door falls closed with a thud. His hand slides down to his chest, and his fingers splay over his breastbone.

Lucifer was an angel before he fell, but he became the devil nonetheless.

His nails dig into his skin.

He remembers now. The boy’s eyes reflected Lucia’s, as they were all those years ago. Fear.He had become someone to be feared.

Giotto’s mind and heart tear.

(Nobody hears his screams that night because Giotto has lost the ability to release those long ago. He is utterly silent as he falls apart. It’s terrifying _,_ in the way of a soundless newborn. And isn’t it? The Vongola ended an innocent life. How can he _live_ with himself?

He cries himself to sleep)

_‘’The future depends on choices. I trust you to make the right ones, Vongola!’’_

When he wakes, he knows.

‘’I’m disbanding our military forces.’’

He seals the rings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Footnotes**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> 11Monday’s Child is a popular nursery rhyme, I did not write it myself. You can find more information on it [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monday%27s_Child).[return to text]
> 
> 22On the liver: this is factually correct, as far as I could find.[return to text]
> 
> 33 ‘’Cozart has to go back to his parents every spring but often returns to them in winter.’’ In chapter 308 of the manga, we see a flashback in which Giotto and Cozart meet for the first time. Cozart mentions that he is in Giotto’s town because he is visiting his grandfather. I took this to mean that he had family there, which he usually visited for a few months, before going back home to his parents.[return to text]
> 
> 44 ‘’He remembers them being dragged away; men kissing men. To jail, some said. To be butchered, others whispered. Disgusting, some screamed.’’[return to text]
> 
> From what I could find, Italy in the 1800’s had a relatively friendly attitude towards homosexuality, but for the sake of the story, and the fact that I wanted Giotto to confront the fact that his society does not accept his sexuality (as many queer people face today), I chose to dismiss this.
> 
> 55 On the ‘’Man shall not lay with man as he lays with woman’’ conversation between Knuckle and Giotto: this is a sentence in the Bible, which has MUCH discussion about it on its actual meaning and the exact translation. What Knuckle says about it is not entirely correct (or, at least, a really REALLY shortened version of one of the explanations).
> 
> You can find some more information on it here: [1](http://religion.blogs.cnn.com/2012/05/15/my-take-what-the-bible-really-says-about-homosexuality/comment-page-1/),[ 2](https://www.quora.com/Is-the-verse-man-shall-not-sleep-with-man-in-the-Bible-actually-a-lost-Greek-translation-of-man-shall-not-sleep-with-boy).
> 
>  To see more perspectives, you can simply search for the sentence on google.[return to text]
> 
>  
> 
>  **Author’s Note**  
>  For anyone wondering when this story is set: I put Giotto’s lifetime somewhere around 1800. Most of my research for this fic was specifically set to this era. It is, however, hard to find information sometimes, never mind double checking them, so please keep in mind that not everything will be factually correct. Most of the biggest artistic licenses I knowingly took I will address in my author’s notes.
> 
> I’m planning on weekly updates for this story. There are four chapters in total!
> 
> I want to thank [@i-w-p-chan](https://tmblr.co/mNoKeB29TqcMOv0MQ4i5RTw) for being here with me from the beginning, [@operaeagleicelynlacelett](https://tmblr.co/mBGAgybd0Zs29KkNLFXl-OQ) for reading and commenting on my work, as well [@ladyhallen](https://tmblr.co/m7PWLdiS_t6bbjxVXEHqCxA) , for reading and commenting, as well helping me with the quotes for each chapter! Next to that, I want to thank the Meet Me in the Pit Crew as a whole for their endless support and love!
> 
> Also, [@operaeagleicelynlacelett](https://tmblr.co/mBGAgybd0Zs29KkNLFXl-OQ) wrote a poem based on this story (but with a different ending) and it is INCREDIBLE. Please go read it! You can find it [here](https://operaeagleicelynlacelett.tumblr.com/post/165096807207/you-were-a-heavenbound-angel-wings-halo-and-all)! 
> 
> If you want to squeal with me: this is my [Tumblr](https://onceabluemoonwrites.tumblr.com/).


	2. Take Me to Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Giotto wishes to confess and deaths happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I don’t own Katekyo Hitman Reborn.

> _"I would stop praying to help the beggar at my door, and my god will understand,"_

-St. Vincent de Paul to the other priests who scolded him for not praying enough

* * *

**Chapter 2: Take Me to Church**

* * *

“You’re making a mistake!”

‘’This isn’t up for discussion.’’

Daemon slams his hands down on the table. ‘’Giotto, we’re surrounded by enemies on all sides! We can’t disband the military force!’’

The rest of his friends stare at him, unsure what to do.

Giotto’s hand clenches on the crucifix around his neck, body stiffening, bracing himself to take a stand. ‘’We’re becoming the men we fought, Daemon. I’m prohibiting any and all violence within the Vongola. This conversation is over.’’

Standing up to one’s own friends is terribly hard and it never gets easier. But this needs to be done. There had been fear-filled brown eyes and Giotto never wants to see that look again.

Daemon grabs Giotto’s collar and shakes him, face twisting. ‘’When is it going to get through to you? We’re all going to the devil’s bloody blazes anyhow! Stop trying to be a saint before it gets not only you but all of us killed!’’

Giotto shoots up, shoving Daemon away. ‘’ The Vongola can defend just fine against enemy intruders, but the town’s people can’t. Not if their own protectors have become the bullies! We aren’t warmongers and I’ll be damned if I’ll let us become dictators!’’

For a second, Giotto thinks Daemon is going to spit in his face. He doesn’t. The blue haired man looks him straight in the eye and says:

‘’You’re playing with _lives,_ Giotto.’’

Daemon turns his back to him and stalks away. The door falls shut with a thud.

Helpless, Giotto gazes at the rest of his friends, slumping in exhaustion. They don’t say a word. It feels heavy, terribly so, but it can never outweigh the lives on his shoulders.

Daemon is doing this because he loves the Vongola just as fiercely as the others do. Justice burns in his veins, Giotto knows.

It still hurts.

* * *

‘’He never adjusts to change well. Not unless he initiated it.’’

Giotto stares down at the wine glass held loosely in his hand, forlorn. The red liquid swirls around uselessly. It feels a little lost.  ‘’Nobody else said a thing.’’

Elena squeezes his shoulder, blond hair glinting in the firelight. ‘’They’ll be fine. It’s a whole new way of life. They’re afraid right now, just like you are. It will come with time.’’

And as Elena says, they do.

* * *

‘’Take care of my people, Rica.’’

‘’Go visit Longlegs already, Gio.’’

Giotto laughs, slinging an arm around G and Knuckle, waving at his cousin as they walk towards the coach. ‘’Have fun!’’

There’s a last laughing shout from Lampo, Ricardo cat calling back, and then they’re off.

He’s going to visit Cozart, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t confess this time. He isn’t sure what his reaction will be, but as long as Giotto’s heart beats, it beats in the chest of another, and he can’t stand hiding it anymore. He needs the truth. The truth and all his emotions, bared to the world; Naked, pure and clean.

He loves and he will never be ashamed of it again.  

* * *

Their arrival is quiet. The Simon, ever gentle, live in a peaceful village at the edge of a mountain, drenched in sunlight and surrounded by the soothing sound of the wind rustling through the trees. Lampo moves along, yawning, green hair sticking up in all directions. Asari and G are on either side of Knuckle, falling out of their normal formation. Even Alaude’s shoulders aren’t rigid for once. Giotto’s glad; They need relaxation desperately and Simon village always does the trick.

As to him- his breath catches in his throat the minute he catches sight of Cozart. There are people around them, the whole courtyard thriving with people, hooves clicking on the cobblestones, but Giotto doesn’t notice any of it. He only has eyes for Cozart, with his smile attempting to become as broad as his shoulders, sparkling with joy, and Giotto’s world is on fire. In a good way, this time.

Warm arms around him, and to his delight, Cozart doesn’t let go afterwards. He just shifts, one arm still slung over Giotto’s shoulder as they move towards the dining room. Twilight slips into the sky, dyeing it purple.

The welcome party is loud and everyone shovels their plate up ‘till the roof, wine flowing freely. It all tastes like ash in Giotto’s mouth, the lump in his throat not letting anything through. The dining room is attached to the ballroom- the only true extravagance the Simon indulged in, and it’s visible. Huge marble tiles so clean Giotto can see his own reflection, walls decorated with countless creatures, faces, swirls, stories carved into the very soul of the mansion. Instead of a roof, there’s a glass dome, the star-lit night sky easily seen. The moon looms over them.

They dance, and by the name of the Lord, it’s what the Simon do best. Except, of course, producing red-headed boys that make the world spin with a smile and steal hearts with their every breath. But then again, Cozart is whirling over the dance floor with feet made of lightning and a presence larger than the sun at noon, and Giotto knows wine-eyed men and melodies are one in all the ways that matter.

Cozart is harmony, for all he might be earth.

Cozart catches his gaze, laughs brightly as he makes his way over, and big hands close around Giotto’s own, pulling him onto the dance floor.

His hands tingle, and it feels like sparks, like fireworks, like singing Hallelujah and screaming it from the rooftops.

It’s warm and alive, electrocuting, and Giotto wants it to last forever.

* * *

Wheezing, they stumble onto the balcony. They’re out of breath, but can’t stop laughing, the wine going to their heads. The cold night air fills his lungs, a shock to his system. He feels lightheaded, his entire existence focused on Cozart. It’s too much, filling his mouth, his ears, his lungs, until Giotto’s breath is stolen, and in order not to drown, he looks away. Leaning against the stone balustrade, he attempts to control his breathing. Cozart is still talking in the background, beyond the haze. In the distance, behind the trees, he sees the tomato fields. The smell of earth is heavy in the air.

It grounds him, the ordinary things.

The sun will rise again tomorrow and the Simon will dance and pick tomatoes, regardless of whether or not Giotto confesses. Whether or not he is rejected.

He swallows.

Inhale, exhale, turn.

Cozart is standing there, so utterly perfect, and God, Giotto can’t. His breath stutters.

The most beautiful creature on earth frowns and leans forward. ‘’Are you alright?’’

And, oh God, oh God, Cozart closes in, putting a hand on Giotto’s forehead. He’s concerned, thinking Giotto might be sick, but the blond has never cared less. Because Cozart just put his hands on him, and Giotto can’t handle that either.

His lips part. Cozart’s eyes dart down, distracted by the movement. His hand is warm on Giotto’s face and the blonde’s heart is in his throat, drumming against his sides. It’s now or never.

‘’Cozart, I need to tell you something. You... You mean the wor-‘’ The door leading to the balcony slams against the windows.

‘’The Vongola are under attack!’’

* * *

The ride back home is a blur. They left the coach behind. Cozart lends them horses, and the hooves pounding are unable to drown out the sound of Giotto’s heartbeat. For once, there are no shaking hands, only Giotto forcing himself to breathe. Keep breathing. He goes as fast as he can, but no faster. He doesn’t want to hurt the horse.

At home, they’re getting hurt too. Maybe even dying.

Concentrate. He forces himself to focus on the muscles shifting beneath the horse skin.

The wind blazes against them, forcing tears into Giotto’s eyes. His feet burn. Concentrate.

(What if they’re dead already?)

* * *

The doors of the mansion are wide open, the gaping maw of a monster, leading straight to the depths of Hell. Giotto stares through it. The mansion is in ruins, ripped apart. Sandstone walls have fallen down, you can look straight into the building. The dinner table is clearly visible, even from this distance. The carpet beneath it is red, and… Giotto’s breath hitches. What else will be stained scarlet?

It’s like looking at Giovanni’s corpse again- the intestines spilling out.

Yellow bricks from the ruined walls are scattered across the courtyard, sinking into the mud. The flowers have been trampled. A children’s glove is half buried underneath them, its edges signed.

He walks up the stairs. The teeth of the monster’s mouth. Wait- is that?!

He scrambles to get closer, eyes widening in horror. Draped over the topmost steps is Ricardo, blood staining the side of his white blouse like bath oil pouring into water. His chest tightens and twists. He can’t breathe.

As if in trance, Giotto kneels and reaches out, cupping Ricardo’s cheek.

It’s still warm. He closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath, before steeling himself. Ricardo needs him. His men need him. The Vongola needs their leader, and as Cozart said so many years ago: _‘’Giotto, there’s no one but you.’’_

G squeezes Giotto’s shoulder. ‘’Go. I’ll handle Rica.’’

Asari, Knuckle, Alaude, and Lampo stand behind the redhead, solidair. And Giotto is so goddamn _grateful_ for them. ‘’Thank you,’’

He stands up, turns around and walks into the mansion, not looking back. Rica is his son in all but blood- this is how much he trusts his family.

Now, if only he could find the remainder of them…

* * *

‘’KEEP YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF HER!’’

Giotto whirls around in the middle of the corridor and takes a turn to the left. Daemon. Screaming. Daemon never loses composure. Giotto’s mouth is dry.

Just a few steps more and- Giotto freezes in the door opening.

The outer wall of the room has been ripped out by an explosion. Rubble is spread all over the room and the ironwork from the fireplace lies wrangled against the pit. The luxurious pillows have been torn apart, their feathers prey to the wind, eddying all around.

On his right, next to a broken chair, sits Daemon, kneeling on the floor, surrounded by mirror shards. He’s holding someone up, golden strands spilling through the gaps between his fingers. Elena. Who else would it be? He relaxes, relieved.

Her skirt is belled out all around them, and Salvatrice, one of Vongola’s nurses, is walking around them, huffing. She walks straight towards Giotto, wiping her brow with her apron. ''She’s a formidable woman, broad and strong, about forty years old.[6]

‘’We need to move her, he’s not letting us.’’

Straight to the point as always. Giotto wets his lips, gives her a jerky nod.

Elena’s face is in the crook of Daemon’s neck, the man carding through her hair gently. Giotto approaches them, mirror shards cracking underneath his heel.

‘’Don’t touch her.’’ His voice is hoarse.

Giotto grimaces. Daemon has episodes sometimes. He’s a mist, their very mindscapes are traps, always moving, hiding, changing. It makes them a mental fortress, but also unstable. The more powerful the mist, the more fragile their mind often becomes. And Daemon has power in spades if nothing else.

But Giotto doesn’t want to assume. ‘’Daemon.’’

The blue haired man raises his head. It takes a second or two before Daemon’s eyes focus on his face. His features twist into a sneer, his arms tightening around Elena. ‘’ _You.’’_

Daemon raises his hand, but before he can activate his flames, Giotto punches him in the jaw, knocking him out. Catching both Elena and Daemon, he waits until Salvatrice carefully takes Daemon from him and lets him lift Elena. It’s a practiced maneuver.

Giotto sighs as Salvatrice lays Daemon down. He knows Daemon will be grateful for it later, the man hates being out of control, but it’s still awful, having to do it. It never gets any easier.

But first things first. He adjusts Elena and begins to walk towards the left side of the building.

Salvatrice gives him a funny look. ‘’Where do you think you’re going?’’

Giotto frowns. ‘’The hospital wing, of course.’’

Salvatrice stops dead in her tracks and covers her mouth, the light falling onto her wilting features. ‘’Oh, sonny boy,’’ she croaks, ‘’That one’s bound for the morgue.’’

Giotto stiffens, the world reeling around him. The only thing keeping him standing is sheer force of will and the fact that he’s holding Elena- Elena’s _corpse._

Her cold skin makes sense now, but he wishes it didn’t.

(By God, he wishes it didn’t)

* * *

He blacks out for a while after that. He doesn’t remember carrying Elena’s body to the morgue, but he must have, because when he wakes up, he’s settled against the door.

He takes a deep breath, sees Daemon, his head bowed, dressed in _black, n_ ext to a table up ahead, and flees.

He can’t take this. He can’t.

 _‘’We’re all going to the devil’s bloody blazes anyhow!’’_ He remembers Daemon screaming.

Giotto knows he is. It doesn’t make it any easier to deal with Elena’s death.

* * *

Him fleeing ends, of course, with him facing his problems again. The hospital. A long row of full beds, moans everywhere. Sunlight colours the sick- it does not help their paleness. The white sheets only makes it worse.

It seems like the row of beds goes on forever. Long, daunting, unconquerable

Then again, there is someone in those beds that Giotto cannot abandon.

He takes a deep breath and walks.

Underneath the window in the back, Ricardo lies. His side is heavily bandaged, and Giotto moves closer with a gasp. He’d hoped it would look less bad when he saw it again, but all he can see is the gaping hole that must be underneath it.

 _No,_ he tells himself, _no, this is not like with Giovanni. You have suns. You have healers. You got there in time._

He sits down, scooting the chair closer to Rica’s bed. Wiping the sweat-drenched black hair from the young man’s forehead, he smiles. Caring for Rica is like coming home. So quickly, the boy has aged. So young, Ricardo still is. It feels like yesterday that Giotto took him from his aunt’s tired arms, cradled him, then put him on his hip, then carried him on his shoulders, until the boy became too big for even that.

Ricardo is precious, and age will not change that.

A few hours later, Rica’s eyes flutter open. Sleep slides off him like a mantle, slow but sure, until he comes to completely.

Then the panic hits.

‘’What- how- Gio, I-‘’

‘’Calm down. We got here.’’

Ricardo grabs his hands with a wild look in his eyes. ‘’In time?’’

Elena flashes before his eyes, and Giotto cannot answer. The silence is obviously answer enough for Ricardo, however, because he deflates, burying his head in his hands. ‘’Dead.’’

A desperate noise fights its way out of Giotto’s throat as he scrambles to engulf his cousin in his embrace. Ricardo grabs his shirt, holding on even tighter than he did when he was a baby- as if he was scared to death someone would pry him off his favourite human.

‘’I… You left them in my hands, and I _failed them. Failed you.’’_

And it is the truth, except that- ‘’You could _never_ fail me, Rica. Not even if you pulled down the moon and made it crash on top of us.’’

It is true, except his cousin is eighteen, and has never led so many people before. Has never have to carry this kind of burden on his shoulders, because Giotto was always so incredibly careful to keep it anywhere but there.

Ricardo led the Vongola, and people died. There have been many situations in which Giotto was leader first and father second, but this is not one of them.

So Giotto leans forward, his forehead against Ricardo's, and whispers: 'I'm so proud of you."   
Because he is, and that's the only reason he needs to tell Ricardo so. 

They boy lets out a broken sob, and cries into his shirt, and if anyone thought Giotto’s eyes stayed dry, then they did not know him at all.  
  
A warm feeling envelops him, even through his tears. 

This child is his. Hallelujah.

* * *

Dark shadows approach through the night. The church is long and cold, the shadowed statues in the niches along the side tower over Giotto as he walks down the stone path towards the altar. Their eyes seem to follow him, stoic faces creasing, judging him from above. The large windows at the end of the church allow the light of the moon to fall down onto the single candle still burning, flame flickering on top of the altar.

Giotto stops in front of the stone steps, closes his eyes, bows his head, folds his hands and prays.

War is approaching and he has no idea what to do.

There comes no answer. Tired, the fatigue of battle still in his limbs, he sits down on the pew. Slumping, he rests his head in his hands.

What to do, what to do? His enemies won’t stop, but he can’t take the violence anymore. The thoughts are too heavy, dragging him down, and his lids fall closed with them.

He sleeps in the House of God.

* * *

When he opens his eyes, he’s facing a gate. The gnarled, curling metal creates the illusion of tree branches wound together. It’s dark, though, burnished and black, sucking up the little light that filters through the trees around the dirt path towards it.

There’s something ominous about this place, and it is not simply the gothic design.

The gate rattles. Teeth gleaming in the low light, yellow eyes glowing in the dark, blood-shot and baggy. Wet snouts and furry heads, drool dripping onto the ground. Dogs.

Giotto gasps and takes a step back, crossing himself to ban out evil.

Behind them is a graveyard, and he knows, instinctual, as if this knowledge is engraved in his bones, that these are the dogs of war.

They jump up against the gate, throwing their heavy bodies into the  It’s not the loud rattling, the clang of the metal that concerns him, but the creaking at the sides. The gate hinges are about to break.

No- he’s got to stop them!

…But how?

The dogs crane their necks back, worshipping the moon like a god, their howls their prayer. ‘’Hallelujah!’’ they cry.  
  
Anger rises in Giotto’s veins. War is an instrument of the devil. It is not made for the love the Lord preaches. "You dare use the name of the Lord in vain?!" 

As if one, the dogs stop howling, looking him straight in the eye, glowing eyes studying his every motion as they move in unison. Their eyes hold the glint of intelligence, supernatural knowledge in their gaze.

Giotto shivers.  
  
Simultaneously, they speak up, their low baritone vibrating. A growl, yet so civilized it startles him. "Why would it be vain, sire, when we rejoice that we might once again be useful? War is coming, and we must be set loose. Please turn the key, so that we might fight."   
  
"But you hurt mankind!’’    
  
"Mankind hurts itself, sire, and those who do not defend themselves are the first to die. War can only be avoided when two parties put themselves into a vulnerable position, unto the mercy of God. But he that be damned, is he that forgets the Earth for the Heavens, so die he shall.’’

Clutching the gate, Giotto presses his face against the cold metal, desperation seeping into his voice. ‘’What do you mean?’’

They call him sire, but he feels like a child in their presence, so young to their ancient power, so foolish compared to their wisdom. A grandson in his grandmother’s lap, knowing everything there is to know in his youth, yet knowing nothing simultaneously.

The dogs look at him knowingly. ‘’Consider carefully when choosing not to fight, sire, what the price might be.’’  

They howl again, the heralds of the approaching storm.

* * *

''The church bells sounds, Giotto wakes up, cries Havoc and let slip the dogs of war.[7]

(Havoc, war is, because it is useless. A step one takes when they see no other option, a cry of chaos and destruction were there should be love. 

Choice? Ye have one.

Die, son, flee or fight.

Peace be no more, when Havoc's cried)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Footnotes:**
> 
>  
> 
> 66 To give you  
> an idea of Salvatrice’s age: 40 was old back then. 47 was the  average lifespan of an italian living in the  
> early 1800s. [return to text]
> 
> 77 ‘’Cry  
> havoc! And let slip the dogs of war,’’ is a phrase spoken by [Mark Antony](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_Antony) in Act 3, Scene 1, line 273 of [William Shakespeare](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare)'s  _[Julius Caesar](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Julius_Caesar_\(play\))_
> 
>  
> 
> [return to text]


	3. Judas Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn

> So Judas kiss’d his master;
> 
> And cried—‘All hail!’ when as he meant—all harm.

-          Henry VI., Act v. sc.7

* * *

**Chapter 3: Judas Kiss**

* * *

Their enemies have heard of the Vongola’s weakness, and like all predators, they swoop in for the kill.

This is war.

Giotto dresses in armour once more. It is heavier than ever.

* * *

So much for dying will, as Asari dubbed it, when it is only a fight to keep from dying. There is little will left in Giotto, but for himself and his friends to live.

He can’t stand the fire anymore. Every time he uses it, he smells the burning flesh, whether it actually is there or not. But not using his combat skills ended in Elena’s death, and there is no room for pacifism when there are people lunging for your throat. Never mind time for panic attacks.

Not using flames means death, but flames are warmth. And warmth, Giotto knows, is the only degree of temperature that exists- there is no such thing as cold.

Like a flash of lightning, like a blessing from above, it comes to him, in the middle of battle.

_Zero point break-through._

There is no such thing as cold, but ice does exist.

He swings his fists in a semblance of a prayer.

(The original form was lethal.

He leaves the corpses of his enemies as giant ice sculptures, to be melted into a puddle of blood and broken bones by G.

G makes sure he never sees, but Giotto _knows._ It is as if G can see right through his mantle, through his clothing, through his façade, into his heart. G, his brother in all but blood, sees it for what it is- as fragile as the wings of a hummingbird, even more precarious than his sanity.

They never speak of it. Some terrors will break in half- just leave them clutching each other, family from the start, family till the end)

* * *

Just two weeks ago, he was about to confess to Cozart, and now he is in the middle of a war. He attempts to write him, but the words won’t flow onto the paper, and he ends up crumpling the letter.

If it’s gone the next morning, then the maid must’ve cleaned it up.  Giotto can’t even bring himself to care if she reads it or not anymore, despite the shocking revelations it might bring. His limbs are too heavy, dragging him down, the energy he does have is spend in one way only.

The battlefield.

* * *

It is a dark day when Cozart Simon receives a letter, and it is signed ‘’Vongola Primo,’’.

* * *

Strategy meetings are terrible these days. Their forces are spread thin, every division is spread far and wide. Hands set on the table, Giotto leans forward, as if willing it will make the colourful blocks of enemy forces on the maps leave the poor wooden Vongola pieces alone.

The heat is unbearable. He rolled up his sleeves hours ago, and still his sweat-dampened hair sticks to his forehead. The bags underneath his eyes only deepen these days.

The warfront at Southern Italy is horrifying. The enemy’s main forces are amassing, the dark cloud on the horizon Giotto is so desperate to clear.

There are three other conflicts going on in sync with the main one, and Giotto is about ready to fall to his knees and pray. But he has to believe they are not yet lost. These men believe in him, these men need him, and Giotto must at least try to straighten his posture and _help them,_ like the godforsaken man he is.

He seeks the rosary hidden beneath his collar.

_Avé_ , _Maria. Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death._ _Amen._

When Knuckle storms into the room, doors slamming against the wall, Giotto feels like crying.

‘’Giotto, it’s terrible! Right in the middle of the enemy camp, our family is stranded!’’

No, no, _no._ Slamming his hands down on the table, he overturns the inkwell by accident, paying it no mind as the ink flows dark over his fingers. ‘’Which affiliation?!’’

‘’The Simon!’’

Giotto pales, stumbling back. No, it can’t be. Not Cozart.

G steadies him, grip tightening painfully on his shoulder. ‘’What the hell is Cozart doing there?! He isn’t supposed to  be involved with this war at all!’’

It had been the one thing they had unanimously agreed upon. The Simon would remain untouched. Until now, apparently.

Giotto straightens his spine, fists balled at his side. Cozart is the wind, Cozart is the sea, Cozart is the wine Giotto drowns in. Cozart is the very air he breathes, and Giotto _cannot lose him._

He turns to his friends.  ‘’I’m going get Cozart out of there. Please take care.’’

With that, he stalks towards the door. Daemon steps in front of him, eyes narrowed, shoulders high like a cat hissing in Giotto’s face. ‘’You can’t! Your men _need their leader,_ Giotto!’’

‘’But-‘’

Daemon cuts him off, eyes narrowing dangerously as he moves in until he’s nose to nose with his Sky. ‘’Do you want a repeat of _Elena?’’_

The colour drains from Giotto’s cheeks. At the sight of it, Daemon deflates, posture slumping. Standing there, in his black widower’s garb, he looks worn out, yet somehow more alive than he has been in months. The huge hall of the Vongola mansion dwarfs him. A single speck of black on the polished wooden floors and the sparkling glass all around them.

Sighing, Daemon rubs the bridge of his nose. ‘’I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’’ His voice softens, a quiet sadness on his face, exhaustion and grief colouring his features like a veil. He takes Giotto’s hand and squeezes it. ‘’Please leave it to me, Giotto. With my elite behind me, I’ll try to pave a path so the Simon may escape.’’

A wave of gratefulness and affection washes over Giotto. Daemon has been off for weeks, but he is there now, and that is all that matters. Letting go of Daemon’s hand, he embraces the man for a single moment. The tightening of his arms around him are the only way Giotto can express this amount of love for his friends, but god, is it there. A warmth, a warmth he must share.

The only fire Giotto can stand, is the sweet, slow burn of his love for his friends.

‘’May the Lord guide you on your path, my friend.’’

Hallelujah, for those we can still embrace.

* * *

‘’Gio,’’ Ricardo mutters that night, when Daemon is long gone, and Giotto has retired to the calm company of his son and best friend, ‘’He smiled as he walked out of the hall.’’

There is no question as to who is meant.

Giotto hums, playing with Rica’s long, soft hair, leaning back against the sofa. ‘’Our goodbye must have touched him.’’

He smiles up G over Rica’s head. Meeting his gaze for a second, G averts his eyes.

Nothing more is spoken on the subject, but the silence says enough.

(Giotto tells himself it was a comfortable quiet, but he can taste the ash of lies on the tip of his tongue and knows it was not.

But then again. This is not the time for mistrust.

Daemon cares for the Vongola more than anything. Giotto has faith his friend will do right by them).

G shakes his head when Giotto isn’t looking. Ricardo bites his lip, and clenches his eyes shut. The smell of smoke is heavy in the air, but the hearth’s not burning.

In the distance, a rooster crows.[8]

* * *

‘’Giotto, there is a traitor in our midst.’’

‘’I refuse to believe it’s Daemon, G. It can’t be!’’ Giotto’s voice cracks.

Leaning his forehead against Giotto’s, G laughs mirthlessly. ‘’I wish I could say so too.’’

Though it is not dawn, the cry is heard. A rooster crows at night.[8]

* * *

_My dearest Giotto,_

_To my deepest regret, the Simon are dead._

* * *

Dead silence reigns the halls of the Vongola.

Expressionlessly, Giotto stares down at the letter within his hands, Daemon’s name signed at the bottom with a flourish.

Shifting from one foot to another, Asari reaches for Giotto’s shoulder, his fingertips grazing against the suit. Giotto’s voice comes down on the heavy silence like the crack of a whip.

‘’We’ll move out.’’

* * *

Only once on his horse, the wind razing past him, the sky obscured by the trees around them, Giotto’s mask falls. There are no tears on his face.

This morning, a quiet knock has resounded on the glass doors of his balcony. A slip of a girl was behind it, dark hair drawn back in a ponytail, pale skin grey in the little light the overcast sky let through.

Her red eyes made it unmistakable. Magi Simon, Cozart’s niece.

Giotto had opened the door, and without saying a single thing, the little girl had taken his hand, put a piece of paper in it, and folded his hands around it. Staring up at him, her gaze solemn, she had reached out as quick as a hummingbird, touching the rosary that had slipped from his collar as he bend over to greet her.

A silent blessing, though for whom, Giotto had no idea.

He hadn’t had the chance to ask either because she’d turn around, hoisted herself up on the balustrade, and nimbly climbed down along the ivy vines. Silent as a ghost, she disappeared, as if she had slipped through reality altogether.

Her limbs had not breathed single melody.

Giotto had taken a moment to mourn a Simon walking in silence, instead of dancing to the wind, crossing himself for their sake. Then he had turned to the crinkled paper in his hand, smoothing it out in order to read the note.

_Not dead. Traitor found. Meet me at the cradle’s bound._

_\- C.S._

There was no doubt about it. Daemon is the Judas among them, betraying them, leaving them to their fate. It hurts, it hurts so much, and for the third time, Giotto tries to deny it.

Twice now, the rooster has crowed. A third cry joins it now.[8]

Tears drip down his face, as Giotto is forced to acknowledge the bitter truth.

With hurt in his heart, he rides towards his love, knowing his friend has betrayed him.

* * *

The Cradle’s Bound is a rock formation in Southern Italy, located in the Apennine mountains. Rising up against the sky, the valleys walls stretch out as far as the eye can see. Even filled with trees, the perfect shape is easily seen from below. A cradle.

What less people know, however, is that within these walls, cave systems rest. The Simon were not born yesterday. They have survived many an attack before, thanking their lives to the refuge of the earth.

This is the Simon Cradle. The place where they began. The place where Cozart was born.

No one but the Simon call it the Cradle’s Bound, which is why it is the perfect place to meet up. Forgotten by time, but not by its inhabitants in their time of need.

The only one who came with him is G, and as he spots Cozart’s red hair through the green foliage, he cannot help but grin, forgetting his plight for a single moment.

This is what it comes down to. Three boys in the middle of a war, a blonde with a redhead on either side. Ready to love, ready to fight. Fists clenched, hearts full of hope, sadness and anger all around. This, this is the Cradle’s Bound.

They left their horses behind a while ago, trudging on foot through the forest. Now, seeing Cozart sitting on a tree trunk up ahead, Giotto _flies._ Red hair, red eyes, broad shoulders, narrow hips, a quiet melody on his lips, _god,_ Cozart is the most beautiful thing on earth and the world must know it.

It reminds Giotto of days by the sea, of three boys sitting in the sand, of working side by side in the shipyard, the burning sun on their backs. Of before it all began. And perhaps even of a little after, on the nights they huddled close and laughed at juvenile jokes in the dark.

Throwing his arms around him, Giotto holds on so tightly that he has to let up or fear Cozart suffocating. Cozart huffs into his hair, leaning against him, thumbs rubbing circles on his back. G is laughing behind them.

Giotto is home.

* * *

‘’It’s been years since the three of us have been together like this, isn’t it?’’

‘’Yeah,’’ Cozart smiles. Then his shoulders slump, the energy slowly draining out of him, as if thinking of the _why_ of that equitation, and how it endangered his people.

Even when they were just boys, Cozart and Giotto were dreamers, visionaries. G has always differed from them in that aspect. Not that Giotto and Cozart were alike in their execution of their visions, that was. Unlike Giotto, Cozart did not have the tendency to speak up loudly. Where Giotto attracted eyes with his every step, Cozart drew it away from himself, content to sway to the melody of the wind and just watch as he walked. Cozart notices e _verything._

Where Giotto’s grand visions inspired people to follow him, the shining sun breaking the dawn, Cozart is moon-like. The Simon follow him as if it is the gravity itself that pulls them, attracted to him because he is not as bright, softer, less likely to hurt one’s eyes than Giotto, who burns himself alive in his attempts to ignite. Cozart notices everything and knows exactly what his people need.

Knows exactly what Giotto needs. Because Cozart does speak up, but only when it counts. It is simply not in his nature to confront directly, which is exactly why this whole situation is so fucked up. Cozart… Cozart ferreted the traitor among Giotto’s ranks out.

He went to lengths so great G can barely believe it.

Cozart cannot pretend to be mafia the way Giotto can. He cannot be harsh, he cannot be commanding, he cannot… _appear_ like that, the way Giotto can. Cannot rise like the sun above, the sky G had to guard when all the man could was cry.

Cozart is a family man, a leader, but not a fighter. Not like G, who felt the destruction in his hands, the power in his veins, the blood that painted his features and had, at one time, even relished in it.

Cozart fought for the Vongola anyway, and Giotto looks like he longs to be in Cozart’s veins, carved into his bones, walk through his mind and live in his heart.

Watching Giotto stumble around Cozart is something G is used to. In his every childhood memory, Giotto was there, right next to him. He has seen him at his highest, carried him at his lowest, but always, always together. Shoulder to shoulder, striding forward.

Once Cozart was part of that unit. Still is, because some things do not die even after they ended. G has seen the rise of this empire, and his stomach clenches at the thought of its fall. Ridiculous Giotto, steadfast Cozart, laughing G.

What has become of them?

Just one moment more, something inside of him whispers. But he has no time for love affairs. Has no time for reminiscing. Not right now. Not when everything he has worked for is at stake. Not when everything _Cozart_ cherishes is on the chopping block, hiding here, in the cave systems of the Cradle like an animal trampled in the crowd licking its oozing wounds.

The Simon are not dead yet. So he speaks up.

‘’What are we going to do about Daemon?’’

He can see the warm bubble around Giotto and Cozart burst.

Cozart takes a deep breath, his arm falling back to his side. ‘’Daemon believes the Simon were killed in battle. What if we let that be the truth?’’

He is dead serious.

‘’WHAT?!’’ Giotto stumbles back, ‘’What- what are you saying, Cozart?!’’

G can feel a headache coming up.

‘’Gio… If anything, this proved we’re your weak spot. You publicly send Daemon, commander of one-seventh of the Vongola’s army, to rescue us personally. If we’d be out in the open, we’d have a target painted onto our backs for the rest of our days. And my family can’t handle that. They aren’t trained for combat. We’d be slaughtered within a week. And you certainly can’t spare the manpower to protect nearly hundred defenceless people at the moment!’’

Cozart sighs. ‘’Besides, I have a feeling Daemon won’t be so easy to defeat. Look at him. He’s _insane_ and that’s not even everything! His power is incredible! There would be so much sacrifice involved in taking him down.

Tell me honestly, can you lose another friend?’’

Leaves fall down, but no answers comes.

Watching the breeze ruffling Giotto’s out-of-bounds hair, G knows already. There is only so many times you can console someone when they cry their eyes out before answers like these become a given.

‘’So if we disappeared from this world, went into hiding in a place where nobody would ever find us… It would be fine, right?’’ Cozart’s voice is so soft it dies in the wind.

G wants to hit something. He doesn’t care if he breaks his hand doing it.

It’s not even fucking self-deprecation on Cozart’s part. He genuinely believes he’s doing the right thing.

Giotto bursts, yelling with clenched fists shaking. ‘’Do you even understand what you’re saying, Cozart?! Disappearing from the world, to continue living only in the shadows, what’s so grand and heroic about that?!’’

Cozart smiles, the corners of his eyes creasing. ‘’You need not worry. We’re pretty reclusive people, after all!’’

Is it okay to throttle your friends?

Giotto throws his hands skywards. ‘’What about the children?! You just expect the future generations to carry that burden?! To never feel the sun, to stay hidden in the deep sea?!’’

Compass eyes stop spinning, and Cozart looks them dead in the eye. ‘’I do.’’

Giotto’s mouth falls open.

Seconds tick by, the tweeting birds the only thing heard.

‘’…Our family is not so weak.’’

‘’Cozart…’’ Giotto’s shoulders hunch.

Goddamn these idiots. For Giotto’s sake, Cozart would withdraw himself from the mafia world, and from the view completely.

G did not understand self-sacrificing idiots and certainly did not like them. Approving of it would mean this dark chapter in the history of the Vongola would be buried forever, right along with the Simon, shrouded in mystery.

But however much G disagreed, it did not matter. Because looking into Cozart’s eyes, it was clear he wasn’t backing down.

Perhaps Giotto could convince him? …No. Watching Giotto, G could see the conflict in his posture, the war in his mind clear as day. But Giotto had never been able to stand up to Cozart, because when Cozart spoke, it mattered. Because Cozart, in Giotto’s world, was the very earth his feet walked upon, and he would be lost without it.

In the end, he had to admit defeat. ‘’Fine.’’ Clenching his jaw, Giotto gave.

G kicked a fucking tree.

Giotto held a finger up. ‘’But, I want you to swear to me that as long as the Vongola exist, the Simon will be there in the shadows, supporting us.’’ Closing in on Cozart, he took his hands.

…Was G intruding on something private just by being here?

They better not get married without him present, damn it!

* * *

Giotto’s heart was beating in his chest like it was about to stage an escape from his ribcage, pounding in his ears.

This was it. Cozart was leaving.

It was now or never.

Still, the right words did not come. He spoke anyway, infusing them with everything he had. ‘’I want you to swear to me that as long as the Vongola exist, the Simon will be there in the shadows, supporting us.’’ Closing in on Cozart, Giotto took his hands.

The Vongola, for all it had brought forth both great and terrible things, was his life’s work. His magnum opus. The grand masterwork Giotto had built with his very own hands.

To bind that to Cozart’s family… It was the most meaningful proposal he could make.

And Cozart understood, his eyes widening in stunned revelation.

This was it.

Like the sun through the clouds, a smile broke through Cozart’s surprise, so broad it almost split face in two. ‘’I see.’’

God, did Cozart see, Giotto’s bare soul before him, heart on his sleeve, offering it up to his mercy. Just once more, let him have this.

‘’In that case, I swear the Simon family feels no resentment or bitterness towards the Vongola family for this incident. No matter what, from now until the end of time, our families will always be bound together.’’

Cupping Giotto’s cheek, Cozart takes Giotto’s heart right out of his chest and puts his own in the empty ribcage left behind.

Giotto… Giotto has not lived before this moment. He is coming apart at the seams, pure joy streaming through him as if it is about to explode. It’s so much- too much, and it needs anoutlet.

He surges forward.

Their lips meet. It's not so much a kiss as a desperate collision of teeth, but they fall into each other, again and again until it's a soft thing, barely a whisper, and so sweet that Giotto aches. For more of this. More of Cozart.   
  
Of Cozart forever. 

Behind them, G shakes his head, a small smile on his face as he walks away. Let them have this moment. This one moment, in eternity.

* * *

One night only. That’s what they have.

It’s stumbling into Cozart’s room, fingers straying everywhere. It’s falling onto the bed on his back, sprawled over the sheets. Giotto’s body language is open as it happens, staring up at Cozart as he leans in- and god, Giotto wants to be caught in them forever.

A single night.

It’s like the candle in the corner, flame flickering, just enough wax to burn for a little. Burn. Burn up. Great shadows on the wall.

He reaches up, hand caressing Cozart’s cheek, drinking in wine red eyes. His expression is so vulnerable and this, Giotto knows, is the most tangled people get. This is the closest they become, for Cozart might still be dressed, but he is bare before his eyes. Naked as the day he was born.

He pulls Cozart down on top of him, burying his nose into his neck, feeling hands running through his hair, fingers gently scratching his scalp.

This is the closest people can become, and he wants to be closer still.

Cozart turns his head and seals his lips over Giotto’s, ever so gently, eyes fluttering closed. He kisses back. No tears tonight. Only love, ‘till dawn will steal his heart away from him, until the wind will stifle their flames.

There is a deadline to their being together. The rising of the sun, it’s first rays tearing them apart, kicking and screaming. But they have tonight.

They break apart, amber meeting red, and Giotto clutches Cozart’s shoulders. ‘’Make love to me,’’ he whispers, though it feels like he’d shout it from the rooftops. But there are no rooftops here. No people to shout it at.

Because right now, the only two people in the whole wide world are the two of them. Cozart leans his forehead against Giotto’s. ‘’Let me break your heart open,’’ he breathes it against Giotto’s lips, ‘’That that might be ours forevermore.’’

With a sob, Giotto closes the distance between them.

Tonight the world does not exist, except for two people, drowning in each other, getting lost in twist and turns, showing the stars beyond the outer reaches of the universe.

A single night.

But it is theirs.

* * *

The sun breaks through the clouds, lighting a bed. The blankets still warm. Its former occupants now stand outside, visages illuminated by the break of dawn.

This is it.

They watch as the sun breaks through the shadows, as the shadows swirl and sway, how they whirl like smoke, like thunderclouds. Like the storm come to life- the night within the day.

There they are, trees all around them, green grass full of life peeking through their rotting toes, standing in the middle of the clearing.

The Vindice have arrived.

Last night, they spoke the words. The Vongola and the Simon swore their fate would be entangled forevermore, and when those words are spoken, the mafia law must be upheld.

An alliance is to be made.

Cozart’s hands tightens around Giotto’s. ‘’That flame…’’

Giotto knows. Flames are strange and wondrous things. They are terrible weapons, have destroyed much he held dear, but have also been the thing that protected his family so many times. He would hold no love for them, but they are part of their souls, and he might be able to hate himself, but never those he loves.

Not even Daemon.

First the flames of the Sky, discovered in the heat of battle. Then, the flames of Earth secreted away within the dance of life the Simon cannot let rest. Now this.

This force that spills from the Vindice’s mummified corpses across the matter of the world. Dark, sticky, like ink oozing from a broken inkwell across an illustration full of colour.

He wants to hide away, but he has forgotten the art of hiding, has stood in the light for so long that hiding is… Unnatural. Giotto’s business has been all over the streets for more than a decade now, but now his flight instinct awakens again. But he has to stand. He has to face his fears.

But with Cozart’s hands in his as it happens? Giotto might just survive.

Cozart’s always been good at that; Keeping him together when all he wants to do is shatter. Not like G, who time and time again is left to piece him together again. No, Cozart’s different. A simple touch makes Giotto feels like he can fly.

He can hold that hand for only a little longer, but the strength he draws from it is immense. He straightens his spine, standing tall. The ground beneath his feet, the wind in his hair, the sky above him and Cozart next to him.

‘’It is you,’’ he speaks, wind ruffling his hair, eyes trained upon the dark silhouette upon the shoulder of the largest corpse. ‘’Vindice. Or should I call you Bermuda von Veckenstein?’’

The chains upon the ground rattle. Bermuda raises his small head, huge in proportion to his body. He is the corpse of a child, clear as day. The bandages hide his face, but something about the shadows around him swallowing light makes Giotto feel like he is smirking. As if he is looking upon them like a cruel child about to salt a slug. About to raise his foot, and squash them like the bugs they are.

Cozart rubs his thumb over his hand, and Giotto stays where he is. There is still a flame burning to withstand the black hole that is the night.

It is theirs.

Many years ago, the Shaman Sepira told him of this man, and Giotto has not yet forgotten the pain within her eyes as she uttered words of damnation. Has not yet forgotten the prayers he spoke for this name- for the should be none so lost within darkness as the Vindice.

But they are not here for darkness today. They are here to uphold mafia law.

‘’To finalize entanglement of fate between these two families, I require six keys, each one holding a memory that suits the spirit of your bond.’’ His voice is squeaky, slow, yet creeping.  There is no shame in him for his childish pitch, only heavy knowledge.

Giotto cannot help but incline his head in respect for that.

Cozart turns to him. ‘’My wallet,’’ he speaks, ‘’for our first meeting.’’

Giotto nods. ‘’A carnation, for Franco’s death and the founding of the Vongola.’’

Cozart throws his head back and laughs. ‘’The flower of coronation? Oh, you beautiful bastard.’’

Really, how nobody ever discovered Giotto’s homosexuality is kind of a miracle. He grins, eyes almost closing. But he keeps them open, for the light shine so beautifully upon Cozart’s face, and by God, Giotto has to drink him in.

The third key is a letter, the fourth his inkwell, the fifth a document, and finally, the sixth is a clear pacifier, for their meeting with Bermuda.

The seventh key, for a memory not yet made, for what comes after this, they will forge. The seventh key is what will bind it all together- what will seal the deal forever.

They choose to forge their rings together- for only the symbols of their families entwined may be privy to the secret of what their heart desires.

Joining their hands together, heads in close proximity, Giotto smiles up through his bangs, smiling as Cozart’s broad lips quirk up. This is it. This is them.

Forever.

‘’This flame is an oath from me to you.’’ His flame awakening, forehead burning, hand lighting, his flames flickering over their joined flesh.

Cozart’s hand tightens around his, ‘’And vice versa.’’

Earth and Sky, no barrier between them, ignited.

But, eyes fixated on the flame surrounding their hands, they know. They know, that this is the entwining of them. There will be no rings, except the family ones, no waking up next to each other, except in memory, no long life together, except in dreams.

Only this, their souls wrapped around each other in a desperate cry of dying will. Fire, as they’ve always been. Sky and earthbound together, for whatever short time they have.

This is them. And the world will burn before this love will die.

* * *

This confession started and ended with a kiss. A Judas Kiss, of one of his closest. A lover’s kiss, here in the end. Both a soft goodbye kiss, never to be seen again.

But however much Giotto had to let Cozart go, he is not finished with Daemon.

Turning back to the Vongola mansion, he takes a deep breath, the midday warmth within his lungs.

Confronting Daemon, it is.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Footnotes**  
> 8 8The story of the three crows is a reference to Saint Peter, even if it isn’t exactly contextually the same. [return to text]
> 
> Other than that, I hope you enjoyed my reasoning as to how Zero Point Breakthrough was made! (also, I love G so much).


	4. The Tomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nobody stands up from the death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I don’t own Katekyo Hitman Reborn.

> _“Easy is the descent into hell, for the door to the underworld lies open both day and night. But to retrace the path; to come out again to the sweet air of heaven – there is the task, there is the burden.”_
> 
> -Virgil, the aenid

* * *

**Chapter 4: The Tomb**

* * *

The dining hall is dark when Giotto comes home. Lightning flashes through the sky, rain splashing down against the huge windows. His footsteps are wet, tracking mud from his long ride home onto the spotless floors. Raising the candle holder, he can barely see a foot in front of him, the dancing flame fickle.

It is the second lightning flash that illuminates the room for a single second- just enough to see a stark silhouette at the head of the dinner table on the other side of the room. ‘’Daemon.’’

It is utterly silent as he approaches, only the drip-drip-drip of his clothing and his shallow breathing, footsteps fading away with each careful step forward.

Daemon does not move.

He just sits, there in the light of the candle. Giotto gasps at the sight of him, breath stuttering. Daemon’s hair is long, ragged and loose, gone the clean-cut up do it normally is tucked away in. He sits, staring into the flame of the candle. He sits, eyes unseeing, as single dull dinner knife clutched in his fist. An empty plate is in front of him, silverware glinting in the capricious light.

The hall is empty, but for them, but the table is decked for eight- no, _nine,_ Giotto realizes with an ache in his heart. For all the guardians, Ricardo and Elena.

It hurts. His eyes brim with tears and he cannot help but move to embrace his friend, who is stiff as a wooden plank, muscles tense. ‘’Oh, Daemon.’’

Daemon, for a single moment, melts into him, burying his nose in his neck. ‘’On the right side, it’s Lampo, Ricardo next to him, Asari, G. You at the head. On the left, Knuckle, Alaude, Elena and I. That’s… That’s how it’s supposed to be. Where are they, Giotto? They’re late for dinner.’’

Giotto sobs, closing his eyes, tightening his arms around him. ‘’Daemon-‘’

And he must heave through. Must remember that Lampo and Ricardo aren’t just fooling around on their horses right now. That Asari is not laughing behind his fan as Knuckle goes for a spar with G. That Alaude is not being forced into relaxing for once because Elena dictated it so. Because Elena isn’t coming back.

Not ever.

…But he must ask nonetheless. ‘’Daemon, why did you do it? Why… Why Cozart?’’ Because even now, he cannot ask why Daemon killed Cozart when he did not. That Cozart is still alive must remain a secret for as long as he lives, perhaps even beyond then, but Giotto cannot lie to this wreck of a man, this insane shadow of the great man his friend used to be.

So the question is: Why Cozart? Why this betrayal?

Daemon jolts like a startled mouse. ‘’Co…zart?’’ it comes out dazed, like he’s not entirely there. ‘’Cozart?’’

Daemon’s muscles tighten, and Giotto braces himself, for he can feel the wave of anger building, but cannot do a thing to stop it.

‘’He made you _weak_!’’ With one enormous heave, Daemon throws Giotto off him. His body smacks against the wall, head rebounding sharply as if his neck is about to snap.

‘’He made you weak, and your weakness killed Elena!’’ Daemon’s eyes are bulging out, his chest heaving, out of breath. He’s raving like a madman, frothing at the mouth.

For a second, all Giotto can see is the painting of God throwing Lucifer down.

Then it melts away to his friend, whose eyes have sunken into his face, whose lips have torn from the taut stretch that went beyond their capability during his screams. Whose heart has been broken, his soul a brittle thing in his chest, little more than a glass bauble about to fall off the table.

This is not about Giotto. This is not about what he wants. This is about Daemon, his grief, and the many mistakes Giotto has made through the years.

Befriending Daemon was not one of them. Not listening to him was one, perhaps. But the past is tangled and doesn’t matter anyway because Giotto can’t change it. For years, he has been trying to rectify mistakes already made, searching for the answer to all of his failures.

In this hour, the answer finally comes to him. A mistake made cannot be unmade. Not a thousand good deeds will make up for a single misstep. The only thing it can do is give you peace of mind, and that, in the end, is all this is about.

He sits up, ribs aching, his head hurting. There is perfect clarity at this moment, and he shall not waste it. He looks up at Daemon, who towers above him, and does the only thing he can. Because love has never made him weak; No, it has given him the strength to do what he must. ‘’What can I do to make you feel better?’’

The fury, the insanity twisting Daemon’s face melts away, his hands falling down. Blinking down, unsure what to think. For a single moment, he stands straight, before he crumples, falling to his knees. Clutching Giotto’s collar, he sobs: ‘’Give me my wife back, you bastard.’’

Pressing Daemon’s head against his chest, Giotto holds on for dear life, clenching his eyes shut. He wants to engulf this man with all his being, take the sadness away from him, to let him breathe. But that’s impossible. All he can do is take a tiny portion of Daemon’s ocean of grief, right here, right now. ‘’I’m sorry. But I can’t.’’

The wet patch on his shirt feels cold when Daemon pulls back, revealing his swollen eyes, red face and runny nose. There is a bitter twist around his mouth. ‘’Where are your miracles now, Giotto?’’

With a deep breath, Giotto speaks the truth. To God, to the world, but most importantly, to Daemon. ‘’I never had any.’’

He is no angel, no son of god, no divine blood graces his veins. Giotto is but a mortal man, and he cannot resurrect those who have ascended to heaven.

He is but a mortal man. It is only now that everyone else notices.

* * *

In the end, Daemon asks him to go. To leave the Vongola, to leave Italy, but most of all, to leave Daemon on his own. Giotto cannot deny him this. He is war-weary, and his friend’s request comes as a relief.

Daemon wants to remain in the Vongola mansion, in the space where Elena and he lived together for so many years, but he does not want to see Giotto’s face ever again.

So Giotto gets out of his way, as Asari offers up his ancestral home in Japan. With them goes Knuckle, sad to leave his chapel behind, but ready to see more of the world, and, surprisingly, Alaude. For the first time in his life, Giotto faces separation from G, because G’s wife is pregnant, and there is no way he’s leaving her. A ship is no place for a baby to be born. 

As Autumn arrives and the preparations for their journey come to an end, Giotto crowns Ricardo King among the fallen leaves. His Vongola dies with the season as Ricardo rises in Winter. He is Secondo, the man who will lead the Vongola into not a new season but a new era.

Giotto cannot help but beam in pride at his cousin, at the boy he raised with his own two hands. Not just at the baby he rocked in his arms at night, not just at the child he carried on his shoulders, not just at the teenager he laughed at and taught to dance. He beams in pride at the man Ricardo has become and knows he will be all right.

He will stand tall as a tree, rooted in his beliefs.

It’s funny. Shaman Sepira told him of an heir to his will, all the way back when she gave him the ring that now graces his cousin’s finger. This heir is not Ricardo. Giotto knows this, for Ricardo is far more ruthless than Giotto has ever been, but with that, fairer too. His way is different, and Giotto can only be glad for it. It is time for Ricardo to reign with his own will.

Someday the heir to Giotto’s Dying Will will come, but that day is not today.

Will they manage? Will they make peace without violence, will they follow God’s command in the ways no sinner like Giotto can?

Sepira… Sepira was a heathen. But so is Asari, and he shows no less kindness, faith and love for it.

Giotto does not know what waits for him in the land of the rising sun, where no man believes in one god only, but he suspects, deep inside, it will be people. Just people. Because that, at heart, is what we all are.

* * *

The harbour is loud, the seagulls crying above their heads, the crowd buzzing all around them. The sailor’s song is heard above it all, low voices reaching everywhere. The sun is bright and reflects off the surface of the water, broken by the waves. The huge ships let off steam, large clouds of it drifting up, but never quite blocking the sun, light falling through the blue, blue sky.

Salt is in the air, and Giotto breathes it in. His friends, his family, are all around him. This is a moment of beginnings and endings. A moment of contemplation.

"My greatest mistake was letting the Vongola grow out of bounds," Giotto says, gazing at the seagulls darting around in the docks, "I cannot lead those who I do not know."  
  
Knuckle throws his head back and thumps him on the back. "Ha! Thinking you can take credit for that fuck up all on your own. Life with you just keeps being the ultimate riot, Giotto!"  
  
Asari laughs softly, shutting his fan. "Indeed, I’d say that it is an admirable quality, to be able to lead through caring."  
  
It is silent for a minute. Nothing but the sound of the waves.  
  
"Think Rica will be all right?"  
  
Slinging an arm across Giotto’s shoulders, G nods. "Lampo’s with him. He’ll be fine. Rica’s made for bigger things than us."  
  
And thinking of his cousin, Giotto can’t help but agree, especially with Lampo remaining behind. His support of his best friend’s reign is incredible, and he determined to stand at Ricardo’s side come hell or high water. It’s hard to believe this is the same spoiled brat the landlord dumped on Giotto years ago.

Giotto’s parents are long dead. The only other person he’ll miss is someone he’s been missing a long time.  
  
His heart aches, when he sees red hair.  
  
But Rica will be all right; That will have to be enough.

G laughs and embraces him, clapping him on the back. ‘’Write, you fool, or I swear I’ll come after you.’’

Tightening his hold around G, Giotto laughs. ‘’A promise before the seagulls? A sign of change, if our previous encounters with this are to be believed.’’

G shakes his head, eyes shining. ‘’Nah, Gio. We change. The seagulls… They remain the same, forever.’’

A burden Giotto did not even know he was carrying falls from his shoulders, a worry laid to rest. ‘’See you where the seagulls are when all of this is over.’’

‘’See you on the other side.’’

And whether they are talking of the other side of the ocean, or perhaps in heaven or hell, it does not matter.

G and Giotto will meet again, no matter what it takes.

This is their promise, and it will never be broken.

Giotto boards the steamship.  
  
Like paper boat into a lake, the ship slides into the great ocean, leaving its motherland behind.

* * *

They follow Asari to Japan. This is what Asari has always been: a guiding star, Polaris, the one who leads those who need it the most.  
  
His kindness might not be endless, for Giotto has seen him tear men apart, but is deep. It expands with everything he does. Steel wrapped in silk- that is what Asari personifies. Going home only makes this more obvious.

Japan is a very different place than Italy, and for the very first time, Giotto truly understands what a sacrifice Asari must’ve made by journeying across the ocean.

Japan is not friendly to foreigners, and Giotto feels it deep into his bones as they arrive. They’re immensely lucky Asari is who he is, really. As a nobleman, Asari has much leeway others would certainly not have had.

He presumes the reason Asari left Japan and stayed in Italy so many years helped. The town his family resides over, Namimori, flourished from the trade Asari set up, and then defended by joining the Vongola. Loaning them his sword is seen as an honourable thing- even if the people he lent it to are seen as lesser in many ways. The town’s people are grateful for the wealth Asari brought them and grudgingly extend a fraction of that sentiment to Giotto, Knuckle and Alaude as well.

To fit in, to make the differences less obvious, they go by different names. At least, Giotto and Knuckle become Sawada Ieyasu and Sasagawa Ryunosuke respectively. Alaude, of course, does no such thing as ‘’changing’’ for this foreign country Instead, he bulldozes his way through town. The local hime-sama takes a liking to him, and before they know, he is somehow married to her.

Personally, Giotto suspects that Alaude threatened Hibari-hime’s father into compliance because there is no way he earned the title of warlord out of nowhere. Especially as marriage to a foreigner was technically not something the law abided. [10]

* * *

A social rule that weighs much heavier upon them, however, is the fact that _not_ entering into a marriage in Namimori seems to be the greatest crime a man can commit. So while Alaude is happily drinking tea in his castle, Giotto and Knuckle are in a bit of a pickle.

The bamboo ristles, the sakura trees flower, and spring is upon them before they know it. Giotto sees Knuckle off in a Shinto Temple, the man clad in a black yukata as he beams at his wife, cherry blossoms blowing by.

There are many misunderstandings between them- marriage is not what it meant back home here. It is akin to family, purely done for procreation. This might seem cold, but Knuckle and his wife eventually compromise until both are happy enough. This very view on marriage, in truth, is the very thing that saves Giotto himself.

Giotto is solely attracted to men, and has long since pandered away his heart to Cozart. Endlessly long letters to him prove this love is still alive, if his constantly ink-stained fingers did not already. They write more letters to each other than they can answer, some get lost in the mail, some in the wind, some in the sea, but never to their hearts.

But then again. Giotto might have come to terms with his homosexuality, but that seems to be of no consequence here in Japan- as long as he marries a woman.

The very thought of it makes his skin crawl. He might not have pledged himself to Cozart before the eyes of God, but he takes his vows very seriously. He simply does not _want_ anybody else. But as even Asari is married off, hostile eyes increase. The locals are already graciously forgiving the fact that he is not Japanese. Not being married to the booth is a crime greater than Giotto even can imagine.

Ayane is a blessing. She wishes for naught but a child, one child only. That’s it. She does not even require Giotto to be a father beyond siring the child, but by the Lord, how can he not? They wed in autumn, the leaves just as brittle as their knowledge of each other.

Little may they know of each other, but the marriage? It works.

Giotto writes Cozart, keeps writing him. Unlike him, Cozart is free of society’s expectations, only the Simon with him on the island. The Simon, who breathe love with every breath they take. He understands, though, why Giotto had to marry, in the end. Neither of them pretends it doesn’t hurt nonetheless.

The letters are tear-stained, but their pain brings them closer together.

Ricardo dies at twenty-eight. Giotto receives the missive, a grief-filled letter from Lampo, and mourns his cousin, the bright-eyed child that died long ago. This hurt too, he carries with him forever. The pain of losing a child is not a little thing.

But still, he cries Hallelujah for having known him, sending a prayer up to the heavens every single night. For Ricardo; For his boy. In a country where so very few believe in his God, Giotto continues to cross himself.

It brings back thoughts of shaman Sepira’s predictions. Of the heir to his Dying Will, that, fortunately, Ricardo never was. So when his wife tells him she’s with child, he fears.

Sepira told him of an heir. But the child is born, and he loves Yoshimune with all his heart. One look at him tells Giotto that this is not the heir of his will. He’s glad. This child is his wife’s, truly and wholly.

His son, Yoshimune, grows up knowing his father as a warm, sweet man, who never quite fits in. Whose yukata is always a few centimetres off centre, who’s obi is always tied just touch incorrect, who’s geta are often left behind as he walks on bare feet. His father is an eccentric- too occupied with his writings, both to his penpals in Italy, and the history writings Hibari-hime hires him to do. Brush stuck behind his ear, ink spilled everywhere, blonde hair wild. That is the man Yoshimune knows as Ieyasu. Outo-san.

Giotto delights in his son and doesn’t rewrite his letters anymore. There is not a single thing to be hidden. The people who receive these letters know his soul; Perhaps, in a way, better than Giotto himself.

He writes letters full of Yoshimune, of his deeds, of his actions, to Cozart, G and Lampo. Even Ricardo still gets letters, though Giotto tucks those away into a drawer only he has the key to. He writes to Ricardo of the boy he could’ve called little brother. Of the child that is Giotto’s, the child Giotto will never regret. Just like he could never regret Ricardo, even if his heart still hurts at the thought of him being gone.

To have loved and lost, is better than to never have loved at all.

Giotto carries the holes in his heart, shaped like those departed, with pride. They hurt. They’ll never stop hurting. The edges of the raw pain might be dulled by time, but they’ll never go away. Giotto doesn’t _want_ them to go away. He wants to walk around with a hole in his heart, and cry beneath the cherry blossoms, because he _loves_ and he cannot stop. Does not want to stop, not even now Ricardo, now Elena, is not in their midst anymore.

He sends a prayer up to heaven, up to the Lord, every night.

He dreams of waking up with Cozart in his arms. Dreams of seeing Elena smile once more. Dreams of Ricardo, no older than eighteen years old, crying into his shoulder. Dreams of life. Dreams of death.

But wakes, for he must meet the dawn again, and see what the new day brings. Mostly, he gets out of bed in the morning because Yoshimune is waiting for him at breakfast and because the futon is not exactly an easy place to write a letter in.

Days, weeks, months, years, decades glide by, but the ink stains on Giotto’s hands do not fade away. By this points, the brush has become an extension of him. As such, it is no more than logical that the morning he discovers his wife is dead, he does so only after the midday meal, when is beginning to wonder just why she never got up that morning.

It was extremely uncharacteristic of her, and he really should’ve checked on her earlier, but usually the morning is their separate domain. She goes her way, he goes his.

When he finds her cold on the futon, he knows she is gone. With a sad smile, he tucks her white hair behind her ears, and calls his son to him.

When his son finally looks up from his mother’s corpse, tear-tracks still clearly visible, kneeling next to the bed, Giotto hesitates for a single moment. But Yoshimune is a grown man, has his own wife and children by this point, and Giotto knows he will be all right.

He is not sure if he could have abandoned him otherwise. Not when he remembers his mama calling him a good Catholic boy, even now he is an old man. But that is exactly what he is, and thus he says what he must.

‘’Add my name to your kaa-san’s grave. Tell them I'm dead. Tell them I followed after your mother out of a broken heart.''

There is no hesitation. The town’s people will believe it. Giotto is well known for his brittle heart and health.

Yoshimune stares at him, before shaking his head. ‘’Outo-san… You loved her, but not like that.’’

And Giotto… For the first time in years, he smiles. Unburdened, it looks, and Yoshimune’s eyes widen, and his hand rises to cover his heart, as if to protect it from the brightness with which it shines. It’s like looking into the sun, but Yoshimune cannot look away even now it blinds him, for his father has never had this vitality, this sheer happiness, and it takes his breath away.

''I never loved her the way I should have, but love her I did, and I know she would not have wanted me to remain here. That's why I need to be dead to the world right now. Because I'm going to the person who kept the heart your mother never had, and in a way, never desired.’’ His gaze softens, pressing his son against him. ‘’You were her treasure, Yoshimune. The one she loved the most.’’

Giotto kisses Yoshimune’s forehead, picks up the pack by the beside, and walks away.

It is simultaneously the very first and the very last time Yoshimune ever saw his father as he truly was, but it is seared into his mind nonetheless. That smile, that happiness, is the image that remains in the end.

The blazing sun, is what Yoshimune tells his children. The blazing sun, that was your grandfather.

He speaks of ink-stained fingers, of wistful gazes, but always, that one vibrant _alive_ thing remains at the end. There is no other way he can remember his father anymore. Not with that glimpse into his true nature in the end.

He calls it by the single name he can think of: Hallelujah.

* * *

Giotto fakes his own death, kisses each of his friends still in town, crows into the air, and steals away like a thief in the night, leaving Namimori and all it stands for behind. He rushes out to sea.

It has been four decades since he last saw it, four decades since he last saw his love, but the sea calls like no other, like the island upon it, like the red-headed people that must have long-gone grey. His muscles tremble as he rows himself onto the ocean, rows all the way to the island, but this… He needs no dying will for this, even as old man.

He needs no dying will, because Giotto is finally _living._

There is salt on his lips, an ache in his legs, as he sloshes through the shallow water, sand beneath his feet, pants wet as can be. The water is blue, the beach is white, and Cozart is _beautiful_ when Giotto spots him between the palm trees.

His face is wizened, creasing like thick, old parchment tends to do. There are crow’s feet around his eyes, he limps as he walks and he's worn in all the ways one can be. Giotto has never loved him more.

He cries, howls, laughs, as they run towards each other, both their gaits hobbling, feeling as if the wind’s been knocked out of them. Still, this is their reunion, and Lord, do they love each other. They meet in the middle, embracing, patting all over each other to make certain this is r _eal._

And it is. It is as real as the day they fused two family rings together, knowing it was the only kind of marriage they would get. They’re sixty-five and sixty-four now, incredibly old by the standards of their youth, but it matters not.

All that matters is this, the sun shining, and warm arms around each other, lips meeting after a separation that lasted decades.

They live and they breathe and they dance, shuffling along the island until they can’t anymore, too exhausted to go on. Two crotchety old men, except Cozart is like sunshine combined with wine, and Giotto was simply not made for being grumpy.

It is paradise, Simon island. They live their lives out there, ridiculously in love, finally together.

They are buried in the same tomb, and nobody stands up from the dead. It’s not needed, really.

His heart sings Hallelujah. ****

* * *

Giotto lives and as any with a dying will, regrets an awful lot. But he loves his son and his wife, and for a short time, could love Cozart like a true lover too. He has lived a blessed life.

This does not mean he rests when he dies, does not mean he ascends to heaven or hell. No, when he goes, just month after Cozart, they go hand in hand, watching over their families. In the end, he even gets to see the heir Sepira spoke of.

It is a boy, fighting with his brows furrowed and fists swung in the semblance of a prayer, who rains kisses on a red-headed boy in full view of everyone and fills his heart with friends and enemies alike, walking beside them every step of the way.

It does not matter which God he follows because the path of family is divine, a love so deep blood, circumstances, nor religion matters.

Where will he go? Heaven, hell? …It does not matter. Cozart’s hand is in his and their family is in good hands.

Giotto smiles, bows his head and sleeps.

* * *

Hallelujah

_Praise the Lord_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 9\. This chapter is called ‘’The Tomb’’, a reference to the tomb of Jesus Christ and the fact that Giotto is very much a mortal man because he cannot resurrect Elena.
> 
> 1010Marriage between a Japanese and non-Japanese person was not officially permitted until 14 March 1873, a date now commemorated as [White Day](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Day). Marriage with a foreigner required the Japanese national to surrender his or her social standing.
> 
>  
> 
> [return to text]
> 
>  
> 
> 11\. Also, many of the cultural things described in this chapter (such as how marriage was viewed) is the result of research on the time period, not necessarily something still believed in Japan today.
> 
> Thank you for reading this story- writing it was a great journey for me! I also want to thank my mother, who is the reason this exists in the first place, though indirectly it might be. Though I grew up with Catholic parents, she always gave me the choice whether I wanted to follow the religion or not, and to this day, I believe in multiple religions as result. She always told me a good Christian is one who believes in love, who strives to do the best for everyone and who try to be kind no matter what.   
>   
> It's a very big topic, and it affects our societies from an extremely deep level. So even if I don't know the exact time period Giotto lived in, I could use the general idea of religion in the past. That's the point of Hallelujah, really. Of believing, even when everything goes wrong. Of having faith, though in which religion matters not, because Giotto's story preaches of love, the one emotion I believe is at the heart of everything. 
> 
> I hope I managed to carry that message to you, through this story, that is so very close to my heart.
> 
> I would also like to thank [@i-w-p-chan](https://tmblr.co/mNoKeB29TqcMOv0MQ4i5RTw)  , [@operaeagleicelynlacelett](https://tmblr.co/mBGAgybd0Zs29KkNLFXl-OQ) and [@ladyhallen](https://tmblr.co/m7PWLdiS_t6bbjxVXEHqCxA) for their endless support and enthusiasm! Love you, girls! And last, but certainly not least: The Meet Me in the Pit crew! Thank you for accompanying me on this journey!  
>   
> If you want to squeal with me: this is my [Tumblr](https://onceabluemoonwrites.tumblr.com/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [you were a heavenbound angel, wings, halo, and all](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13902327) by [loosecloudymist_OperaEagleAce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loosecloudymist_OperaEagleAce/pseuds/loosecloudymist_OperaEagleAce)




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